


People Are Strange

by watsonsjumper



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, BAMF John, BAMF Sherlock, F/M, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mary is Not Nice, Mind Palace, Minor Mary Morstan/John Watson, Pining John, Pining Sherlock, Sherlock is a sad gay baby, Very graphic, a little scary at some points, a wild fic, i had a dream about this!!, johnlock s4 au, like its so funny, mary fakes her pregnancy, per usual, sherlock is a pining mess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 22:27:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9093181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watsonsjumper/pseuds/watsonsjumper
Summary: A zombie apocolypse johnlock au. Inspired by a dream i had not 45 minutes ago.





	1. Chapter 1

John came to slower than he had expected. Consistent thumping on a door he didn't want to open. His eyes snapped open, his mind becoming aware than he was still in the closet he had locked himself in. He stood in the small space, stretching and preparing himself for the undeniable combat that waited outside of the door. He gripped his axe tightly, his gun tucked into the back of his pants. He took three deep breaths before unlocking the door.

He threw the door open with a force strong enough to knock a crowd of people over. He swung the axe almost blindly at the shadow in the corner of his eye. His axe was caught in the hands of something that was far from a creature.

"John! John, stop. It's me." A voice broke his trance. He looked to see Sherlock Holmes, of all people, in his former house.

"Jesus, Sherlock. Oh my god. I thought you were dead." He rasped, pulling Sherlock into a tight embrace. Tears escaped his eyes, his fists gripping the fabric of a familiar coat. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, smiling.

"I thought you might be here. Where's Mary?" Sherlock pushed John away, holding him at arms length. John wiped his eyes.

"I don't know. I don't know. God I- she was gone when this all happened. She never came back." Tears rolled down his cheeks once again. Sherlock pulled John into another hug, rubbing his back.

"It's okay, John. I've got you now. We're safe." Sherlock said. John nodded his head. "Come on, John. The flat is safe. It's not far. We'll figure this out." Sherlock paused for a moment, remembering something. "There's a considerably large hoard outside. We might have to fight a bit. Ready to be a soldier again?" Sherlock smirked. John smiled, saluting Sherlock playfully. Sherlock pulled a curved knife out of the loop of his trousers, glistening in the dim light shining through the window. 

"Just a precaution." Sherlock said, running the tip of his finger across the knife. John unconsciously licked his lips.

The two men ended up sneaking past the hoard, Sherlock throwing a rock in the opposite direction as a distraction for the infected to follow. They took off down the street, hand in hand (so they wouldn't get separated, of course) and running at top speeds, dodging and stabbing and doing everything in between to keep the other safe. Living.

They rounded the corner, trembling and clutching their weapons close to them. Baker Street was empty, aside from the stray infected, who mindlessly followed sounds and lights like children. Cars littered the street, some turned over on their side or crashed into each other. They scrambled in the flat, met by a teary Mrs. Hudson and hot tea. Sherlock bolted the door, which had new locks added to it. Several. Which wasn't unexpected in their current predicament.

They sat in their chairs, breathing heavy for a while.

"That was..." John started.

"Ridiculous? Fantastic? Amazing?" Sherlock blurted, leaning forward towards John. John chuckled and put his hand on Sherlock's knee.

Sherlock would be lying if he said his heart hadn't almost jumped out of his chest and landed right in John's lap. The truth about Sherlock Holmes was that he was in love with his best friend, John Watson. The truth was that he would love John even if he did the unimaginable. He'd love John every day until the day he died. He would follow John to the ends of the earth, do anything, if it made John smile, even for a moment. But he knew that it would never happen. He'd never hold John, never kiss or tell him everything he feels about him. John could never know, he decided. Not with Mary. The baby.

That wife- oh, that wife. Mary's unexpected cameo in John's life had mussed up everything for Sherlock. Of course, he'd never admit it. Admit that he despises her. Loathes her even. She was just as- no, more poisonous to John than he was. She was dangerous. Deceitful. She hurt John, and that was worse than anything. Being shot didn't compare to the pain he felt when he saw John's heart break, right before his eyes. God, no. He can't describe it.

But he could never tell John any of this, of course. Could never risk his feelings. Never risk John's life. His family. He would never hurt John Watson. Not as long as he lived.

So he sat, smiling at John, his heart threatening to leap from his chest just to see how it might feel having John physically hold it. His knee tingling from a need so strong it ran through his veins.

"All of the above." John sat back, clearing his throat.

John would be lying if he said his hand hadn't tingled after removing it from Sherlock. The truth about John Watson was that he was in love with his best friend, Sherlock Holmes. He would love him until the day he died. That was fact. Truth. He was sure. But he too knew it would never happen for him. He would grow old with Mary. Raise his child somehow. Be a model citizen and eventually stop seeing the love of his life.

That was exactly what Sherlock was to him. He loved Sherlock more than he had ever loved anyone. He was the love of his life, the love of a thousand lifetimes. Sherlock Holmes was his saving grace, his only piece of comfort in a world he had never seen. A world he couldn't imagine with Sherlock in it. But he could never be anything more than a friend to Sherlock. Never that. He had a wife. A baby on the way. It was just too late. He couldn't tell Sherlock. Hell- he probably already knew.

It was all just too late for both of them.


	2. Chapter 2

It was a well known fact to Sherlock that he didn't have the material to create a slight cure. He had figured it out already. Eliminate the infected while working on a cure. Nobody came to him for this case. He was just..afraid. Mostly for John and the risk of Mrs. Hudson. John could take care of himself. It was common knowledge. John was his own caretaker. But he could never risk John's life. He could never forgive himself if John went off on his own and never came back. No soldier is trained to combat things with bloodthirsty compulsion and no morals. No emotions.

He envied them. Envied to know what it was to no longer have feelings, to wonder around the city aimlessly with no destination. No John. No Mrs. Hudson. No Mary.

He loathed that name. John can never know these things. Can never find out how dark his heart was, how clouded with envy and hatred for Mary. He could never know how his heart ached for John. How it pounded, writhed, pushed its way from his chest in John's presence. He loved John Watson more than he had ever loved anything, and it was fucking terrifying. His lust, want, _need_ for _him.  
_

And yet, John wanted Mary. Lying, cheating, assassin Mary Watson. That isn't even her name. AGRA.

"There's been nothing for weeks, Sherlock. We need to go look for her." John said, looking out the window and keeping his eyes on an infected woman wondering the street, growling at the others who passed her. She snapped in their direction, her rotten jaw clicking in and out of place. Sherlock was unable to understand why the flesh rots so quickly, despite his donor, an infected man locked in 221c, and his generous tissue samples for research. It was puzzling for him. The bacteria in the tissue was so hostile it attacked the others on the same tissue. It was the same reaction with the infected against each other. Infected only attacked each other when they got in the way. Mostly over fresh flesh. Like a pack of wolves, he observed. They were fast when they first turn, but as the decay worsens, they get slow.

The infected in 221c was named Luther by Sherlock. He had no ID, which made him happy. He liked naming things. Luther was approximately 34 years old, very docile. He was a tall, lanky man with brown hair and previously brown eyes, which had turned frosty blue after he turned. He had found Luther banging on the door of 221b, clawing and moaning at the door like a cat for days. Sherlock officially captured him and made him his very first live infected patient. Luther was usually calm, easily subdued by a bucket of spare body parts from the morgue. He hardly noticed when Sherlock took tissue samples. Most samples were from his arms or abdomen, but he was starting to rot more, which left few unmarked tissue parts. If Luther wasn't fed once a day, he started to eat himself. He had now eaten 3 of his fingers, taken 5 bites from his arm, and a nasty patch of flesh hung from his thigh. Sherlock had taken his clothes as well, o there was now a naked, infected test subject living in the spare flat below them. Mrs. Hudson complained about him a bit, said he smells, the noises he makes wake her up in the night. But Sherlock had caught her talking to him through the door, Luther groaning back at her sweet voice.

"She'll make her way back to us. Mary is a smart woman," Sherlock hated saying that. "She can handle herself. We're better off waiting here for her." Sherlock reasoned. He didn't want her anymore. Didn't want to hear her name, didn't want to think about her anymore. About how she hurt John, how she lies, how the baby isn't even-no. He shouldn't be saying this. Thinking this. John can't know.

John gave him an irritated look.

"It's like you don't want to find her, Sherlock. She is my wife, and she is carrying my unborn child. We need to find her. It's not safe. She'll start to show soon, get tired, have no energy. You know how pregnancy works, Sherlock. She can't fight a hoard when she's 3 months pregnant." John scolded, crossing the room and looking up at Sherlock, who stood in the kitchen doorway.

 "I want to find her John. I just know that you cannot risk your life for hers anymore. I cannot let you go by yourself. I can't let you get hurt, you're to important to me, to this world." Sherlock snapped. John stood back and rubbed his eyes.

"Okay, Sherlock, I get it. We'll go tomorrow morning. No guns. We don't need to draw attention to ourselves." John said sternly. Sherlock nodded and spun, returning to his spot at the kitchen table, looking into the microscope once again.


End file.
